The Silent Christmas

by M J Lee

  He passed the box across to Harry, who shook it to hear the contents rattle inside. 'Must be from Doris.'

  'Who's Doris?'

  'The wife.'

  'Didn't know you were married?'

  Harry winked. 'I'm not, till I go back to Blighty.'

  The sergeant stood up to leave, but his sleeve was caught by Bert. 'Anything for me?'

  The man shook his head. 'Maybe next time.' He then moved down the trench to the next position.

  Tom ripped open his parcel quickly. Inside was a long grey scarf, hand-knitted by his wife. ‘Well done, Norah, dear. You got my letter.’ As he wound the scarf around his neck and under his jacket, a letter flopped out to land in the slime at the bottom of the trench. He snatched it up, wiped the smears of mud from the envelope and placed it in his top pocket. 'I'll save this for later.'

  The other two looked crestfallen. They enjoyed listening to Tom's letters from his wife. But both recognised he had to read it himself first. A man was allowed some privacy even here.

  Bert opened his brass tin. Inside was a packet of cigarettes, a smaller pouch of tobacco, a studio picture of Princess Mary staring off into the distance and a Christmas card from King George and Queen Mary.

  'I only saw the bugger last week and now I'm on his Christmas card list.'

  On December 9, the first battalion of the Cheshires had been paraded for the King on a tour of the front lines. Bert had been transferred across to make up the numbers. He had spent two whole days on spit and polish, making sure he looked spotless for the royal visit.

  'You only saw him for a second, Bert. Didn't know you were chums now.'

  As a regular, Bert was one of the soldiers chosen to be part of the honour guard for the King. The man had shuffled in front of him, guided by the colonel, even stopping to chat for a second.

  'Keep up the good work,' King George had said.

  'I will, sir,' replied Bert.

  The answer received a stare from the colonel. He wasn't supposed to say anything. The King appeared not to notice and walked on.

  Harry had opened his tin now. 'I've got one too, so you're not so special, Bert Simpkins.' He opened the card and read out loud, 'With our best wishes for Christmas 1914. May God protect you and bring you home safe.'

  Silence from all three of them for a few seconds.

  Around them the war carried on, shells falling a few miles away. Men squeezed past them on their way to another part of the line, the rest of their platoon sleeping or huddling on the straw in the wet dugouts carved into the sides of the trench.

  Harry broke the silence. 'And I've got this too.' He opened a tiny paper folder. Inside were envelopes, writing paper and a bullet. 'Why are they sending me a bullet, for God's sake? We got plenty of those.'

  Tom snatched it out of his hand. He pulled off the metal top and reversed it to reveal a pencil, which he then slotted into the case of the bullet. 'Now you've got no excuse not to write home to the wife.'

  'What's in yours, Tom?’

  He opened his tin. Inside were tobacco and cigarettes too and, in a separate pouch, a pipe. He stuck it between his teeth and struck a pose. 'See, makes me look clever, like Sherlock Holmes.'

  Harry rattled his box again. 'Wonder what it is? Food, I hope. I'd love a tin of spam or, even better, a link of pork sausages from Frost the butchers. Does a wonderful sausage, does Mr Frost. Won a prize for his sausages, he did.'

  'Open the bloody thing and find out,' said Bert grumpily.

  Harry ripped open the cover, peered inside and then ripped through some old, yellowed newspapers covering his Christmas gift. He looked inside and reached to pull out a slightly deflated football.

  'I've always wanted a football,' said Bert.

  Harry peered into the box and then back at the football. 'What was the daft woman thinking? That I can practise my dribbling while I wait to get killed?' He threw the ball down the line of the trench, where it bounced twice and then vanished into a dugout.

  'Perhaps there's a letter inside,' said Tom.

  At the bottom of the box, Harry found a postcard.

  ‘Hello, love,' he read out loud. ‘The Daily Mirror is running a competition to send footballs to our men in the trenches so I put your name forward. I wrapped it up in the sports pages of the Manchester Evening News so as you can see how well City are doing. Got to go now. Love, Doris.'

  'Is that it?' asked Bert.

  Harry turned the postcard over. The other side was blank. 'Doris was never one for words. Much preferred doing things, if you get my drift. Very affectionate, she is.'

  Captain Lawson hurried along the trench. 'Your platoon’s turn for the duty roster, Sergeant. Get your men together.'

  'Yes, sir. Private Wright, you take the first two hours on post three, and Private Larkin, you can relieve him at noon.'

  'Good, carry on.' Lawson continued splashing down the trench.

  'Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir.' Harry mimicked Bert's country voice. 'Can I scratch your arse for you, sir? Please, sir.'

  Bert looked at both of them. It was the look of their platoon leader, not their friend. 'What are you waiting for?'

  Tom stood up slowly and reluctantly, taking hold of his rifle.

  'And watch out for that sniper. He's already taken out Rowell in C Company.'

  'Yes, sir. Three bags full, sir.'

  Tom sloped off to take his place behind the periscope at post three, hoping Fritz would be quiet this Christmas, and feeling the letter from Norah heavy against his chest

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Friday, December 22, 2017

  Didsbury, Manchester

  Jayne opened the door to her home and Mr Smith instantly ran to greet her, rubbing his body and tail against her leg even before she had properly crossed the threshold. Dropping her bags at her feet, she reached down to stroke him. More surprisingly, he then let her pick him up without so much as the suggestion of a struggle. It was as if he understood she needed some love at that moment.

  Vera was still at the hospital. It had taken her a long time to persuade Jayne to leave.

  'Listen, the doctor said that Robert needs sleep. I'll stay with him while you go home. Both of us don't need to spend the night here.’

  'But—' Jayne tried to speak.

  'But nothing, Jayne, it would be silly for both of us to sit here all night. I'll call you if anything happens.'

  Jayne tried again. 'Let me sit with him then, you go.'

  'Go home? You forget, myself and your dad live in a home. It's not so different from here. I'll be okay. Got my knitting, my crossword and my book.' She held up Stephen King's latest offering. 'I'll be comfortable here, don't you worry. And I was a nurse, remember.'

  Jayne couldn't argue with the logic. She tried nonetheless. 'But...'

  'I need to be here, Jayne.’

  Vera softly emphasised the word 'need' and Jayne understood straight away. They had been married less than a year. Vera needed to be with her new husband, and Jayne, as the daughter, needed to understand that.

  'Okay, but I'll come back tomorrow morning, so you can have a rest.'

  'Let me call you first before you drive all the way out from Manchester. Perhaps you can do the evening shift tomorrow?’

  Jayne had driven home and now walked into the cold, dark kitchen, carrying Mr Smith in her arms. She nuzzled the soft fur of his stomach with her nose and he immediately twisted out of her arms, ran to his empty bowl and began to mew.

  Obviously, she had taken intimacy a step too far. With cats, you always had to recognise the boundaries.

  'I know, I know, you're hungry.'

  She switched on her computer to check her mail. The cat, meanwhile, continued to whine with all the insistence of a squeaking door. How dare she not attend to his needs immediately? Messages could wait.

  She opened the fridge door. None of his usual gourmet cat food was left; no chicken liver and asparagus, no lamb and carrots, no beef supreme. She brought out and opened a ba
g of dry cat food. 'I'm afraid this is it, Mr Smith. The Sinclair restaurant has run out of your usual delights.' She filled his bowl to the brim and topped up his water from the sink.

  Mr Smith approached the bowl cautiously, sniffing constantly before settling down to gnaw at the dry food without a miaow of complaint.

  'You must be hungry,' said Jayne out loud.

  She went back to the door and picked up her bags, placing them on the desk next to the computer. She thought about having a glass of wine to relax, then decided against it. What happened if Vera called her in the middle of the night and she had to drive back to the hospital? A shiver shuddered down her spine at the thought. 'Please, no phone calls tonight,' she said out loud again.

  Nobody answered back. The cat stopped crunching his dry food, looked back towards her for a second and then returned to his evening meal.

  Jayne had split up with her husband Paul over a year ago now. There had been a few hiccups over the summer when he met somebody else and wanted a divorce, but it had all been settled amicably, like two grown-ups, and they had agreed to go for the less painful option of a legal separation. It left the issue of their one joint asset – the house – up in the air, but Jayne could live with the uncertainty at the moment. After all, in the greater scheme of things, what did it matter where she lived as long as she and Mr Smith had a roof over their heads somewhere?

  She checked her emails. The first was from an old friend in the police force, wishing her a Merry Christmas. She had left Greater Manchester Police five years ago but still remained in touch with her colleagues. She had spent nearly half her life working there, and had loved every second of it until one incident destroyed everything; the death of her partner, DS Dave Gilmour. After that, she couldn't face the work any more. Too much guilt, too much sorrow. It was all too much.

  The second and third emails were bills for the gas and electric. The vampires still wanted to be paid even though it was Christmas.

  The fourth was from David Wright.

  Dear Mrs Sinclair,

  Remember me? We met this afternoon at your talk. I found your email address from the website. I know you said you didn't have the time and it was nearly Christmas, but it would mean so much to both my sons if we could find out about my granddad. And at Christmas, there's nothing more important than family.

  Thank you for your time, even if the answer is still no. Merry Christmas.

  Best regards, David Wright

  PS. I hope your father is getting better.

  Jayne started to type her reply: I'm sorry, Mr Wright, but I regret to...

  Then she stopped, reading the last words of his email again. I hope your father is getting better.

  Her mind flashed back to that image of Robert lying in the hospital bed, tubes running out of his body attached to machines and drips, and his face covered in an oxygen mask. His eyes closed, his forehead creased and his grey hair splayed carelessly across the pillow.

  At Christmas.

  He was in hospital at Christmas.

  And then she thought of the young boy, David Wright's eldest son, also stuck in a hospital at Christmas. Ill, lonely, missing his family, hoping his sickness would end soon so he could run out to play, or simply open his presents on Christmas morning with his brother, eating the chocolate and the sweet tangerines from the stocking.

  She checked the card in her pocket and rang the mobile number. It was answered after two rings.

  'Hello, is that David Wright?’ she asked.

  'It is, but I'm afraid if you're looking for an electrician, we've closed till after Christmas. I can recommend somebody else who is open, though, if you'd like.'

  ‘It's Jayne Sinclair, Mr Wright. I've decided to aid you in your search if you would still like my help. I can't do it full time, though. I have to go and see my father. He was taken into hospital this afternoon.’

  'I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Sinclair, I overheard your phone call... I hope he's okay.'

  'He's under sedation at the moment. We're just hoping for the best.'

  'I'll pray for him.'

  'Thank you. Now, to get started, can you email me everything you know about your family. I can do quite a bit on the computer tonight and, if we could meet tomorrow, I can pick up the objects and the luggage tag. I know somebody who may be able to tell me what they are.’

  'I could bring it to you?'

  'No worries, I'll pick it up on my way to see Herbert – that's the man who can help us. Let's say nine tomorrow at your place?' Jayne quickly worked out that she could visit Herbert in Cheetham Hill before going to see her father at the hospital. ‘Is the address the same as on your business card?’

  ‘It is.’ He repeated the address and postcode, just to be sure. She knew the area well and it wasn't far from Cheetham Hill, near Heaton Park. 'I'll see you tomorrow, Mr Wright.'

  ‘Call me David, please. And thank you for doing this, Mrs Sinclair. You don't know what it means to both my sons.'

  'It's Christmas, David, it's supposed to be about families coming together. Unfortunately, through circumstances, ours are going to be apart.'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Wednesday, December 23, 1914

  Wulverghem, Belgium

  Tom had just started his third watch of the day. The evening sky was bright with arcing trails of Very lights; a brilliant white from the English side and a pale yellow from the German. Combined with the light of the moon peering through the clouds, they illuminated no-man's-land, the phosphorescence glinting off the strands of barbed wire. To the left, the body of the dead German was still hanging off the wire, its hand reaching forward as if trying to pick something up from the earth.

  Tom peered through the periscope and occasionally popped his head over the top of the trench to take in the whole scene. A year ago on this night he would have been preparing the goose with his wife; pulling out the giblets, stuffing the inside with potatoes and Bramley apples, making the gravy from the offal and the fat left behind in the roasting pan. How he loved roast goose, the skin crispy with fat just bubbling beneath the surface of the bird. He was always given the leg. A Christmas treat, which he attacked, ripping the meat from the carcass and covering his face in grease so he could taste the Christmas goose for days afterwards on his moustache.

  His children would be sleeping now. John in his own bed and the girls, Alice and Hetty, sharing with the other. He often stood in the doorway, watching them sleep in the light of the oil lamp, serenity and peace resting on their faces as they dreamt of the future.

  What did it hold?

  When the war ended - it must come to an end soon - he would go home and build a better world for his children. It wouldn’t be long now, neither side could go on like this much longer. The Kaiser and the King would one day sit down and talk together and finish it. Weren't they cousins, after all?

  Then they could all go home back to their lives, he to his job at the mill, but not for long. He had his eye on opening a mechanic’s shop. He was good with his hands and loved tinkering with motors. Cars were the future, he was sure of it, despite what those men in the cavalry said.

  Bert could go back to his spit and polish in some barracks out in India or Ireland, while Harry could do whatever he got up to in Manchester. Something involving thieving and women, no doubt, and not necessarily in that order.

  But Tom was going to be different, making a life for himself and his family. It had gone on too long, this war – nearly four months already. It was time to go home.

  He popped his head over the top of the parapet. All was quiet in no-man's-land, no patrols from Fritz tonight.

  He checked his watch. Still another hour before he was relieved and could get his head down to sleep. Lord, he was tired. Of the war, of being away from the kids. Of being hungry and cold and wet. He was tired of being tired.

  On his left, another Very light shot up from the English line, hung at the top of its arc for a second then slowly floated back to earth, illuminating the gap between
the lines with its bright light.

  He took out Norah's letter from this morning and read it again before the Very light fell to earth and darkness returned. It was dated December 14; she must have written it the night before it was posted.

  Dear Tom,

  Well, it's nearly Christmas again. This time last year I had just taken out the money from the Christmas Club and I remember coming back from Mr Hargreaves’ shop with my purse heavier than a pig's snout.

  This year, I haven't saved so much, what with you being away and prices in the shops being what they are. The children are looking forward to the holiday, Hetty because she won't have to go to school rather than anything else. John is now a handful, always wanting to play with his soldiers. Alice is a beautiful child, so quiet as she sits in her chair watching the world around her. They’ll miss you at Christmas and so will I. But I'll make sure they go to confession and to mass on Christmas Eve. I'm having no heathens in my house.

  He stopped reading for a moment. His wife was a Catholic, coming as she did from Abbeyleix, south of Dublin. They had met at a dance one Sunday night at the local church - he didn't drink then - and quickly hit it off. She had come across to England to work for a doctor in Hyde as a scullery maid and, with her lively intelligence, had soon progressed to running the household. Of course, she stopped working when they got married. The children came along soon afterwards and before he knew it he was buying a house and settling down. That was life, he supposed, something that was never planned but just seemed to happen.

  He continued reading the letter, hearing her voice as if she were reading it aloud to him.

  Mrs Higgins' son has joined up. He went down one Saturday night to the music hall and they were having one of those recruitment drives. Next minute, he was up on stage signing on for the Lancashire Fusiliers. She's glad he's going now, otherwise he might miss out on the fighting and then he'd regret it for the rest of his life, wouldn't he?

  I hope you like the scarf I knitted. Sorry about the grey, it was the only wool I had left over after making Hetty's jumper. I hope it keeps you warm. According to the papers it can be cold in Flanders at this time of the year. But I'm sure it can't be as cold as that time we walked up the Cloud and were caught in the rain, do you remember?